


Why Not

by toyhto



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Alfie's dying and also likes pretty men, Different ending for season 4, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tommy's going mad in his house, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 06:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15902640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toyhto/pseuds/toyhto
Summary: In which Tommy’s aim isn’t as good as he thought and Alfie’s got more patience than he thought.





	Why Not

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for Tommy's somewhat self-destructive thoughts. Nothing specific, though.
> 
>  
> 
> This is a little story about what could've happened in season 4 finale! Obviously, there're some spoilers for season 4. Not many, though, because this is just about our boys Tommy and Alfie. Also, come say hi on [tumblr](http://toyhto.tumblr.com)!

The maid tells Alfie to fuck off, well, not by those words exactly. He tells her kindly enough that Tommy Shelby shot half of his damn face off two months ago and if he wants to see the bastard, he’s going to see the bastard. Nothing in this side of a thin line between life and death could stop him. Except probably Arthur Shelby. But Arthur isn’t here, is he? Also, he tells the maid about the book he read when he was lying on his fucking bed, trying to recover from what Tommy did to his face in the beach. But soon he realises the maid is too terrified of him to really listen. Well, then.  
  
He walks past her and to the fucking castle that is the bastard’s home. He’s been here before, of course he has. But he doesn’t have a fucking clue where Tommy is. The maid calls after him that mister Shelby is in his bedroom, and isn’t that great, it’s fucking midday already and Tommy’s still in his fucking bed. Alfie can just hope that he’s alone.  
  
It’s not that he doesn’t have an idea what Tommy’s like with his women. Because he does. The idiot probably tries to look tough but can’t keep it up. His tough face, that is. Not his cock.  
  
No. No, no, no, _no._ Alfie didn’t drive all the way down here to think about Tommy’s cock. He can do that just fine in London. He came here to tell Tommy that he’s alive and that the bastard did a fucking terrible job at killing him.  
  
Only he can’t find Tommy. He steps into bedroom after bedroom and they’re all big and posh and empty. Must be boring as hell, living in a big house like this, just Tommy and his maid that has to be terrified of the man. Or maybe not. Maybe Tommy’s sweet with the maid. Alfie fucking knows that Tommy knows how to be sweet.  
  
But he didn’t come here to think about that, either. He came to see Tommy, but Tommy’s nowhere to be seen, so he will fucking open one more door and then he’ll leave and let the bastard -  
  
Oh.  
  
There’s Tommy, sitting on the floor with a bottle of gin in his hand.  
  
“Your own gin?” Alfie says and blinks. The curtains are drawn in front of the window. All the duvets are on the floor, as is an empty bottle of the said gin.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says and laughs in a quite unhappy voice. “You aren’t really here.”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Alfie says, “I regret that I actually _am._ Really here.”  
  
“You wouldn’t come to see me,” Tommy says, “not when you’re dead.”  
  
“Mate,” Alfie says, “I’m not dead.”  
  
“I shot you,” Tommy says and grimaces, “you sold me to Luca.”  
  
Is Alfie hearing things or does the bastard sound a bit hurt about that? Maybe it’s the gin talking. “Well you know how these things go. Can’t afford to get sentimental in our sort of business, can we? But I’m not dead.”  
  
“You are dead.”  
  
“No,” he says. “You missed.”  
  
“No,” Tommy says with the confidence of a drunk idiot, “I didn’t.”  
  
“You fucking did,” Alfie says, walks to the window and pulls the curtains aside. The sun is too fucking bright. He blinks and turns to Tommy, who looks like someone’s trying to dig a hole through his head. “Not used to sunlight, are you?”  
  
“You look,” Tommy says, blinking desperately, “Alfie, you look like shit.”  
  
“It’s all your doing, mate. Also, my left eye went blind.”  
  
“You aren’t dead.”  
  
“No, I’m not,” Alfie says and sits down in the chair. Tommy looks up to him, legs sprawled on the floor. What a sight. The idiot has even managed to put his suit on. “Your aim isn’t very good.”  
  
“Are you going to shoot me?” Tommy asks, raising his chin. Alfie thinks about that chin, well, his own fingers on it, holding tightly.  
  
Shit. Not _now._ “No. No, I’m not going to fucking shoot you, you idiot.”  
  
Tommy looks disappointed. Fucking frustrating.  
  
“What’s happened to you, anyway? Or are you this drunk because you miss me?”  
  
“I took some time off,” Tommy says in a dry voice and then laughs. God that’s an awful sound. Alfie wants to shut the fucker’s mouth. The joyless laugh of drunk Tommy Shelby. Alfie’s going to fucking hear that in his nightmares.  
  
“This is you enjoying yourself, then.”  
  
“Not enjoying it very much,” Tommy says.  
  
Well, an idiot could see that. But Alfie doesn’t say it aloud. Tommy’s watching him, and frankly said, he’s not absolutely certain anymore about why he came here. He could’ve let Tommy be. Tommy thought he had shot Alfie’s brain off so why let him know he hasn’t? Alfie must be going soft in the head.  
  
And now he’s here. And Tommy’s a mess, well, Tommy’s always been mess but this is _bad._ Tommy hasn’t even pulled a gun at him, not once, and he’s been here, what, five minutes?  
  
This is fucking serious.  
  
“Listen,” he says, “you stink. You’re going to take a bath.”  
  
“What,” Tommy says, blinking at him.  
  
“It’ll sober you up,” he says and takes a careful look at the bastard, “or probably not. But who the fuck cares, not me. Come on.”  
  
“A bath,” Tommy says, as Alfie stands up.  
  
“Yeah. A bath. Does your maid know how to make tea?”  
  
Tommy nods.  
  
“Great. So, the bath. And then we’ll drink tea.”  
  
Tommy nods again but doesn’t move. Okay. Alfie grabs the bastard’s arm and drags him to his feet, and Tommy pushes him on the shoulder with a strength of a five-year-old. Shit. Now this is worrying. Tommy tries to take his bottle of gin with him, but Alfie drags him to the door and to the corridor. He’s got a cane and a fucking useless knee and a blind eye and cancer and he can manage Tommy just fine. Tommy’s clearly too deep in whatever it is that he’s drowning into.  
  
Gin, probably.  
  
Or self-pity. Looks a bit like that one. Alfie knows that look.  
  
That’s why he stays.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He doesn’t _mean_ to stare at Tommy when the man takes a bath. Well, he doesn’t, but when the opportunity comes, why not. Why the fuck not? Tommy doesn’t care. Tommy climbs to the bath and closes his eyes and doesn’t give a shit about Alfie, who’s sitting in the chair a few feet away, staring. God, the man is tiny. He should make Tommy eat something. He should hold Tommy’s moth open and talk sweet to the idiot until he would fucking swallow something besides gin. But no, no, now he’s thinking about things that he’s not supposed to be thinking about. He can do that on the way back to London, when he’s alone in his car. And then, at home, he’ll have a good wank over the thought of Tommy Shelby watching him with those blue eyes as he pushes his fingers into Tommy’s mouth. If he can get it up, that is. All this nonsense with getting shot at and having cancer has been a bit hard on his cock.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says in a rough voice. Just in time. Because Alfie’s not going to get sad about his cock just yet. He fixes his eyes on Tommy. It’s easy enough.  
  
“Tommy.”  
  
“You didn’t come here.”  
  
“Yeah, I fucking did, and why is that, I don’t even know.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
He shakes his head. “Wanted to see your damn face once more. Probably to tell you that you fucking missed when you pulled that trigger.”  
  
“You missed, too.”  
  
“You had a perfect chance to kill me,” he says, “and you failed.”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, “I don’t _want_ to kill you.”  
  
“Yeah, I know. You’re still drunk, mate.”  
  
“Why did you _come?_ ”  
  
“Well, I didn’t come to kill you. You’re doing just fine with that on your own.”  
  
“Alfie.”  
  
Oh, fuck. Tommy’s voice is so hoarse. And he’s so naked, sitting in the bath. And so in an arm’s reach. And now that he doesn’t have his gun nor his suit, he’s so fucking _tiny_. Helpless. Fragile. And doesn’t know it, the idiot. “I don’t fucking know, alright? I wanted you to see that I’m not dead. I thought you’d be infuriated. You wouldn’t let it show, of course. But I’d know anyway. But it’s not going to happen now that you’re like that.”  
  
“Like what?”  
  
Fuck how tired Tommy sounds.  
  
“A fucking mess,” Alfie says, “you’re a fucking mess, mate.”  
  
Tommy fucking _nods_.  
  
“And isn’t anyone going to do anything about it?” Alfie asks. His voice is getting tighter. Shit. He’s staring at Tommy’s wrists, too narrow, hanging over the edge of the bathtub. He’s staring at Tommy’s neck and shoulders that look like he could break them with his bare hands. He probably couldn’t, though. Not anymore. “Where’s your family?”  
  
“I told them I’d have some rest.”  
  
“You’re going to rest in the grave if you keep this up.”  
  
Tommy opens his mouth and shuts it again.  
  
“No,” Alfie says, “no, fuck no. You aren’t going to die, not after you almost fucking _shot_ me.”  
  
“Sorry that I missed,” Tommy says, the goddamn bastard.  
  
“Get up,” Alfie says and taps his cane heavily on the porcelain of the bathtub, and then, more gently, on Tommy’s knee that pokes out of the water. “Get dressed. We’re going to have tea and then we’re going for a walk in the garden.”  
  
He’s sure Tommy’s going to say no, so he pushes the tip of his cane against Tommy’s chest, just tight enough that Tommy keeps that bullshit to himself. Also, he could do this whole day, poke Tommy Shelby with his cane. Probably all week. Or the rest of his life, like, possibly six months.  
  
“Come on,” he says and stands up. “If you aren’t going to get yourself out of that bath, I’m going to have to drag you.”  
  
It doesn’t come to that. Too bad.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He makes Tommy drink two cups of tea and walk fifteen minutes in the yard. He’s fucking proud of himself after that, and he’s got the right, hasn’t he? The bastard looks much better. Much less dead. Smells better, too. Not that Alfie’s been walking closer to him, trying to get a sniff. Because Alfie doesn’t do that. Not even if he’s kind of old and dying and his cock only works on good days and this is probably the last time he’s going to see Tommy Shelby and fuck if he’s not going to make all of it.  
  
“What?” Tommy asks when they’re back in the house, walking through the ridiculous hallway. “Do I smell of shit?”  
  
“No,” Alfie says a bit too quickly.  
  
“Because you keep sniffing at me.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Alfie says and bits his lip. Not that. Not now. He’s not going to think about that now or Tommy’s going to fucking read it in his face.  
  
“You could just, you know, leave.”  
  
“I could,” Alfie says, slowing down his steps. Tommy takes a quick glance at him. “But you’d go right back to drinking.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You’re in too deep.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Cut down the booze.”  
  
Tommy turns his gaze to the window.  
  
“Well, then, if you can’t even fucking _lie_ to me that you’re going to do that, I think I have to stay.”  
  
“Alfie -,” Tommy says, and _shit_ , Alfie can _hear_ it in Tommy’s mouth. _Why the fuck do you care, Alfie? What’s in it for you?  
  
_ But Tommy closes his mouth and swallows hard.  
  
“The thing is,” Alfie says in a voice that wouldn’t fool anyone, but Tommy doesn’t even blink, “the thing is that my knee hasn’t been too good lately. It’s a long drive to London. And my goddamn knee aches already. I don’t think I’m going to be able to drive back today.”  
  
Tommy nods, the fucking bastard.  
  
“Maybe I should stay for a night.”  
  
“I have guestrooms,” Tommy says in a quiet voice.  
  
Guestrooms. He’s going to sleep in one of Tommy’s fucking guestrooms. “Well, isn’t that great.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says and doesn’t look him in the eyes.  
  
  
**  
  
  
But the thing is, he hates the guestroom. He hates everything about it. He hates the fluffy pillows. He hates the posh cushions. He hates that it’s huge enough to make him feel small, and Alfie Solomons doesn’t fucking feel _small._ He _doesn’t._ Only he does now, sitting on the bed all his clothes still on, his knee trembling a bit as if it doesn’t have a fucking decency not to show that this whole thing is quite miserable.  
  
Tommy fucking said good night and left him here.  
  
Well, what did he think would happen? Really? Did he think that Tommy Shelby would ask him nicely if he could fuck the idiot? _Did_ he? Fuck. He’s a miserable idiot. And he doesn’t even drink, so it’s all his own doing. Now what he’s going to do is that he’s going to lie on the fucking bedspread whole night not sleeping and also not fucking Tommy Shelby and in the morning he’s going to have to drive to London when he’s terribly tired and angry at himself for being hell of a fool. And probably his knee is going to ache.  
  
He stands up and walks to the door. Then he stops. Then he opens the door. It creaks. The maid’s going to hear him sneaking to Tommy’s bedroom like some posh lady who’s staying for a night and just can’t keep his hands off Tommy. And he’s just like that, isn’t he? What the hell does he think is going to happen? Tommy’s going to push his pants to his knees and bent down on the desk for Alfie, is that it? What? _What?_ But Alfie keeps walking anyway. He’s a goddamn fool but he’s already on the way so why the hell turn back now?  
  
He walks around the corner.  
  
“Fucking hell,” Tommy says, putting quickly away the gun he just pulled at Alfie. “What the hell are you doing here?”  
  
“What the hell are you doing here?” Alfie says, because _shit_ his heart is beating fast. And Tommy hasn’t buttoned his undershirt.  
  
Tommy frowns.  
  
Okay, then.  
  
“Actually, what _are_ you doing here?” Alfie says. “Walking the corridors at your own house in the middle of the night?”  
  
“It’s not even midnight yet,” Tommy says.  
  
“I hate the guestroom,” Alfie says. “It’s too fancy. The pillows are ridiculous. I can’t sleep here.”  
  
“Okay,” Tommy says.  
  
“I could come to your room,” Alfie says.  
  
“Fine,” Tommy says.  
  
“Fine,” Alfie says and then blinks. “ _Fine?_ ”  
  
“I’m not going to sleep anyway,” Tommy says, turns and starts walking. “I’m not drunk enough.”  
  
So, Alfie follows Tommy to his bedroom. Once or twice he considers grabbing Tommy’s shoulder. Maybe Tommy would pull a gun at him again. That’d make him feel a bit more normal about this. But he doesn’t do that, no, he’s lost his mind and he just follows Tommy fucking Shelby to Tommy’s bedroom even though he’s absolutely certain Tommy’s not going to ask for a fuck. Yeah. No. _No._ That’s not going to happen. He should stop the fucking dreaming right now or else he’s going to make a fool of himself. But then again, he’s already done quite a bit of the work. He’s following Tommy to the bedroom, isn’t he?  
  
_Fucking pull it together, Alfie._ Yeah. That’s what he needs. He needs to stop thinking about fucking for a fucking second.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, sitting down in his bed and reaching for the bottle on the bedside table, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”  
  
Alfie clears his throat. That much is a bit obvious, isn’t it? But he can’t make himself to point it out aloud. And Tommy’s glancing at the liquor as if he thinks it’s going to kill him. Hopes, perhaps.  
  
“Tell me, then,” Alfie says.  
  
Tommy’s stare is cold enough. Good. Alfie sits down in the armchair beside the window and stretches his aching knee.  
  
“So,” Tommy says slowly, “that’s how this work. I’m going to talk to you. About what’s bothering me.”  
  
“I suppose so,” Alfie says, rubbing his knee. The room is bigger than half of his damn house in London but it feels tight as fuck. Tommy’s breathing too loudly. Or maybe Alfie is. And he’s not even getting hard. Not at all. He wants to open the curtains but they look like they’re too heavy. God how Tommy would laugh at him. Alfie Solomons, trying to pull aside the curtains and failing. Or maybe Tommy’s nailed them onto the wall. “After all, you brought me to your bedroom.”  
  
“To talk to you,” Tommy says dryly.  
  
“Well, what else?”  
  
Tommy looks at him with cold blue eyes that probably see his fucking soul. Fuck, he’s getting sentimental now that he’s dying. As if he still has a soul.  
  
“What else,” Tommy says, “yeah, what fucking else, Alfie?”  
  
“I don’t know. You tell me.”  
  
“I’ll tell you what?”  
  
“What you want of me,” Alfie says and glares at the bastard. “You brought me here.”  
  
“You drove to see me,” Tommy says, “from London. Last time you saw me, I tried to kill you.”  
  
“Well, yeah. I did.” Alfie taps the floor with the tip of his cane. Tap. Tap tap tap. It’s a cold sound. “And you did.”  
  
“What do you think,” Tommy says in a voice that’s low and dangerous and goes straight through Alfie’s skin, twists in his guts and in his fucking cock, “what do you think would happen if we tried to finish the job?”  
  
“Right now?” _God._ He could take Tommy. He’s almost certain of that. He would hold Tommy down by his arms or, possibly, just for a moment, by his throat, to feel the pulse under Tommy’s skin against his fingers. He takes a deep breath. “You’re drunk and I’m half-dead. We’d end up both dead on the floor and your poor maid would have to clean the mess.”  
  
“Yeah,” Tommy says, “but who would die first?”  
  
“Why won’t you just fucking tell me what’s wrong with you?”  
  
Fuck that Alfie hates the way Tommy laughs. “I’m lost in my own head. That’s what this is.”  
  
“You’ll find a way out.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“I did. After France.”  
  
“That’s not the same.”  
  
“Sure.” Tap, tap, says the cane. “What’re you so fucking afraid of?”  
  
“I’m not –“ But Tommy doesn’t even finish that sentence.  
  
“Because I’m afraid of death,” Alfie says when for twenty something seconds the only sounds in the room have been the tap of his cane and Tommy’s growing breaths. “You’d think it’d get easier. But I’m fucking afraid. I feel like it’s a black fucking void pulling me in. A slow death. _Fuck._ ”  
  
“You could go fast,” Tommy says, almost with no sound at all.  
  
“No. No. I’m not a coward. I’ll be fucking terrified and go through with it all the same.” He points his cane at Tommy, at Tommy’s lap. “You should do the same.”  
  
“I think,” Tommy says, “sometimes I think if I saw myself in the mirror, I wouldn’t know who that is.”  
  
“Well, that’s because of all the posh clothes.”  
  
“Alfie.”  
  
“Do you think I’m not like that?”  
  
“When I stop,” Tommy says, “when I stop moving, like a marionette, like a fucking _toy_ they made us in France, only now it’s me who’s doing it, but when I stop moving, I hate myself so much I can’t bear it.”  
  
“Kid,” Alfie says, “that’s normal.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says and stares at Alfie’s fucking non-existent soul, “I can’t live like this.”  
  
“Just a few hours,” Alfie says. “’Till next morning.”  
  
“I shouldn’t’ve stopped moving.”  
  
“You miss her?”  
  
Tommy blinks. Alfie shouldn’t have asked that. Of course he shouldn’t have.  
  
“Sometimes I don’t,” Tommy says, staring at him as if he’s going to fucking rip out every last bit of Tommy. “It makes it worse.”  
  
“It could help, you know, having someone touch you.”  
  
Tommy’s laugh is hollow and bare. The kid is a mess, a fucking mess.  
  
”Someone who’s not like her at all.”  
  
What the fuck is Alfie doing, anyway? He should stop now. He shouldn’t say what’s already in his mouth. But they’re alone. Tommy already tried to kill him in the beach, so why does he fucking care anymore? Why shouldn’t he say it? Why not?  
  
“You know that I like pretty men.”  
  
Tommy smiles at him.  
  
“Like yourself.”  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says in a quiet, a bit distant voice, “you’re trying to get to fuck me.”  
  
“You ever tried that? Getting fucked?”  
  
“No,” Tommy says and tilts his head slightly back. “Yeah. A long time ago.”  
  
“To be honest,” Alfie says, and he can’t believe he’s saying it, as if Tommy might actually _consider_ , as if Alfie himself is stupid enough to think that anything like that might actually _happen_ , “my cock’s not been too great lately. It might be that I can’t. To fuck you. But I have hands. I could pull it out of you. Your _incurable sadness._ ”  
  
“No one can pull it out of me.”  
  
“For a few seconds,” Alfie says. “Think about it. Lying on your fucking bed, eyes closed, and you aren’t going to think for a second that I’m her. I can promise you that. Just lie there. I’ll do all the work.”  
  
“And what,” Tommy says, licking his upper lip, the fucking bastard, “what do you get out of it?”  
  
“I get to watch.” And isn’t that good? Because if he can’t fuck Tommy Shelby, surely the next best thing in this mindless world is to get to make Tommy come in his hand. On the fucking bedsheet that must be silk. Tommy’s chest wavering up and down with every breath. Tommy’s skin damp with sweat. Tommy’s lower lip on blood, yeah, Alfie would make the bastard fucking bite his own lip not to moan.  
  
And then, Tommy Shelby, lying spent and naked on his own bed damp with sweat and cum, silent for once, slowly realising it’s Alfie Solomons who’s sitting in the armchair in the corner, watching.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says now, “you wouldn’t.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
Tommy places the bottle of gin slowly on the bedside table and takes a deep breath. “Why not?”  
  
  
**  
  
  
_God._  
  
There aren’t many things in this world that come any near to Tommy Shelby slowly stripping off his clothes.  
  
Perhaps Alfie should’ve offered to help the pretty thing. But he has it quite nice in the armchair. He can stretch his knee and squeeze the handle of his cane and let his eyes fall on every inch of Tommy’s skin. Scars. Tattoos. He wants to trace the latter with his fingers and press the first until they ache. But no. He’s going to be nice. He’s going to be nice unless Tommy asks him otherwise.  
  
Tommy leaves the clothes on the floor and stands naked in front of him, facing the closed curtains as if there’s something to see. Maybe the bastard’s shy. But Alfie can’t believe that, not really. It’s more probable that Tommy just doesn’t give a shit about the old man in the armchair.  
  
“You’d let anyone do this, wouldn’t you?”  
  
“Are you jealous?” Tommy says, stepping over the pile of clothes. “Really, Alfie?”  
  
“Not at all. Just asking.”  
  
“I’m going to give you an honest answer,” Tommy says, grabs the bottle of gin and takes a sip, his other hand playing lazily with his cock. “Just this once. No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“You have me naked in my own fucking bedroom. I don’t let people here. Wouldn’t have let you, either, only I didn’t think you were real. Thought you were a spirit.”  
  
“You’d let a spirit fuck you.”  
  
“Probably.” Tommy frowns at him. “You said you can’t get it up.”  
  
“I’m not a spirit,” he says. He’s never felt so fucking alive as he feels now, in his aching broken body. “I’m an actual living man.”  
  
“It’s not always easy to tell the difference.”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Alfie says, “tomorrow you’re going to call your family. You’re going to see them. You’re going to cut down the booze and see your kid. Being alone is fucking pulling you down.”  
  
Tommy opens his mouth and then swallows, and Alfie stares at his neck. Up and down, up and down. “Alfie –“  
  
“I promised, didn’t I?”  
  
He’s going to pull the incurable sadness out of Tommy. For a few seconds.  
  
He starts by standing up. His knee aches. Tommy must see it on his face but doesn’t say a word. He walks to Tommy, sets his cane leaning against the edge of the bed and places Tommy down by the shoulders, and then further still, until Tommy lays down on the bed, his knees pushed apart so Alfie can stand in between them, his chest wavering like a heart of a tiny bird. Alfie’s held birds in his hand. When he was younger. He’s not young anymore. But he’s going to make Tommy Shelby come in his hand and isn’t that great. Isn’t that marvellous, isn’t that everything an old man like him could ask of life -  
  
“Fucking _do_ something,” Tommy says, so he wraps his fingers around Tommy’s cock and starts.  
  
Isn’t it marvellous that Tommy leans his head back, his bare throat _right there_ , so that at any second Alfie could wrap his fingers around it, squeezing just enough to feel Tommy’s heart beat madly against his palms -  
  
There’s something he didn’t tell Tommy. He didn’t tell that he doesn’t only like watching pretty men, he likes touching them.  
  
Their neck. With his fingertips, if they aren’t up for strangling. Because he can be sweet about it. He can run his fingers on the thin skin lightly enough that it’s a tease more than anything else.  
  
And their chest, too. Their shoulders. He wants to feel them go tight with anticipation when he’s getting them nearer to the end. Nearer to when they come with him buried deep inside of them, only this time it’s not like that, this time it’s Tommy Shelby flat on his back, slowly getting closer and closer in Alfie’s hand. But not yet. Not just yet.  
  
Because now he’s climbing onto the bed. He’s clumsy about it but that can’t be helped. He lies down beside Tommy and grabs the bastard’s chin, holds it in between his fingers. Doesn’t squeeze, though. And doesn’t kiss.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says and licks his lips.  
  
_Fuck._ He kisses Tommy on the mouth, just like those posh ladies probably do. But Alfie’s nothing like them. He can see what’s inside of Tommy Shelby. He can see the hollow soundless sorrow of waking up every morning. He can _see_ it.  
  
He runs his fingers on Tommy’s skin, on every place he can reach, and Tommy doesn’t stop him, not even when his fingertips reach between Tommy’s thighs, further down, down where Tommy’s damp and impossibly tight. He doesn’t push. Maybe there’ll come a day when he can keep his cock up. Then he’ll fuck Tommy. On the bed. Or on the table. On the fucking kitchen table where maids can see. And Tommy’s going to moan, Tommy’s going to call his name, Tommy’s going to fucking beg him.  
  
Yeah. That he’ll do before he dies.  
  
If there comes a good day.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, whimpers, the pretty thing, the prettiest thing, slowly going mad for Alfie to make him finish, “just fucking –“  
  
“What you need,” he says in his nicest voice, “is a good fuck. On your fucking table. Your face pressed against it, everything dark -”  
  
“I thought you like to watch my face.”  
  
Fuck the bastard’s good.  
  
“Alfie,” Tommy says, looking at him, his breath ragged, his cock hot and heavy in Alfie’s hand, “I don’t feel anything. Hit me.”  
  
So Alfie does.  
  
Damn it, he does.  
  
But gently.  
  
Because even if Tommy Shelby wants to be broken, Alfie’s not going to break him.  
  
“Don’t you fucking have guts to –,” Tommy mutters under his breath, so Alfie grabs his hair and tugs. It makes the bastard go quiet.  
  
So does the kissing.  
  
He hits, tucks and kisses.  
  
Gently.  
  
And keeps going until Tommy goes limp in his hand, sprawled on the bed, cum on his thighs, his cheeks red and his lower lip dripping blood.  
  
Alfie lies down next to Tommy and waits. And waits. In some point of it, he pushes his fingers back into Tommy’s messed hair. He knows how to calm down dogs. He knows how to stroke their fur. So that’s what he does. He strokes Tommy Shelby’s sweaty head until a few seconds of silence are over and Tommy’s demons start coming back.  
  
Also, he falls asleep in Tommy’s bed.  
  
  
**  
  
  
He wakes up in a dim room. There’re streaks of light coming from under the curtains so it must be morning already.  
  
Tommy’s sitting in the armchair, naked, smoking a cigarette.  
  
“Good morning,” Alfie says, sitting up. “How’s your head?”  
  
“How’s your cancer?”  
  
“Not good.”  
  
“Well, I’ve been thinking,” Tommy says. “I’m done with trying to kill you. Let’s keep the business out of this.”  
  
“I’m done with the business.”  
  
“You go behind my back again and I’ll shoot you right in between your eyes.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Fine.” Tommy puts out the cigarette and lights another. “We’ll see if you can fuck me.”  
  
“You’ve got to get out of this house. Out of this room, at least. At least open the curtains.”  
  
“Maybe tomorrow,” Tommy says, staring at the closed curtains. “But until that, I want you to stay here.”  
  
And Alfie thinks, _why not._


End file.
